Hold My Beer and Watch This
by BackgroundRobot-11
Summary: One of the mercs stood close to the edge of the ship, leaning over and looking down at a nearby building. "I bet I can make that," he said, his voice somewhat slurred. The bottle of Tarisian ale in his hand might have had something to do with that.


Taris

Many years ago, the planet of Taris had been a thriving city-world whose glory had rivalled Coruscant. But that had been a long time ago, thousands of years, in fact. Even before Darth Malak had bombarded the planet to slag during the Jedi Civil War, it had been a fading jewel, when new and improved hyperspace lanes diverted traffic from the world. During the Great Galactic War, the Republic had attempted multiple times to resettle the scarred and damaged planet, and would have initially succeeded, if not the meddling and sabotage of the Sith Empire. Still, in the end, the world had been reclaimed, and rebuilding had begun anew. At least, that was true for most of the planet, in the underlevels, there were still places that had remain untouched, and greenery still overran the millennia old buildings. Overall, it was an entirely forgettable planet that had lost its lustre a long, _long_ time ago.

Still, there was one thing that the planet was good for.

Hunting.

The rakghouls that had once plagued the planet might have been long extinct, but there was still a myriad of deadly species available for eager hunters to choose from. In the wake of the bombing that had devastated the planet, many animals had managed to eke out an existence. They had mostly been survivors of zoos, who had then been free to roam their destroyed surroundings. Tarsarian devourers, bogstalkers and ferrazid hounds chiefly amongst them, but there was also the odd nexu or rancor. In the isolated underlevels where jungles still remained, they had thrived for thousands of years.

That was of course what had drawn the party to the planet in the first place. Upon hearing of Taris reputation as a hunting preserve, Tarm Isoder, a descendant of famed tracker, Trevin Evol Isoder, had insisted that he and his cousin, Davad "Dizzy" Ithenfield leave immediately. After arriving, they had purchased the services of a small group of mercenaries to help them hunt. At least, that was what Isoder had told them, the truth was more that they would be used to distract the wildlife away from Isoder himself. And, if any were lucky enough to survive, they would be used to haul his prize back onto his ship.

They were camped out on an ancient assault ship that had crash-landed atop an even older skyscraper. A small cluster of mercs stood close to the bridge, drinking and laughing amongst themselves. A few meters away, in the centre of the ship, Ithenfield had set up a series of viewscreens, from which he would monitor his cousin and the mercenaries as they delved even further into the underlevels. Ithenfield had never been as inclined to hunting as Isoder was, so he instead acted as support, monitoring various sectors in search of suitable prey or coordinating everyone during the hunt itself.

One of the mercs stood close to the edge of the ship, leaning over and looking down at a nearby building. "I bet I can make that," he said, his voice somewhat slurred. The bottle of Tarisian ale in his hand might have had something to do with that.

They were a motley group, two dozen, mostly Humans, with a few Weequays, Aqualish and Rodians mixed in.

Ithenfield snorted and did not look up from his workstation. "Famous last words."

"No, really, I bet I can do it!" The man gestured wildly, his ale sloshing out of the bottle and falling into the black abyss below.

"Go on them, jump!" One of the other soldiers egged on.

"Yeah, do it!" Another shouted.

Most of them were drunk, not to the extent of the daredevil on the edge, but they were still well past the point of sobriety. Ithenfield glanced up and guessed that he might have been the only one who wasn't sloshed on Tarisian ale. Still, they probably weren't much smarter even with clearer heads. They weren't exactly top-tier mercenaries. Isoder rarely bothered to hire experts, he had told Ithenfield he didn't see the point. After all, they weren't expected to be much more than cannon fodder, why waste good credits?

Ithenfield found it hard to disagree. Especially when he looked over at the men before him. _Drunken idiots_ , he thought.

"You know what? I'll give you a thousand credits if you jump and live." Ithenfield threw in.

The first merc looked down at the gap again and took a long swig of ale. He swallowed loudly, threw the empty bottle off the edge of the ship and then leapt. He let out a piercing scream as he did. The others all rushed forward and leaned over the ledge.

"So, did he make it?" Ithenfield asked, his dry tone suggesting that he already knew the answer. He hadn't bothered to look up.

The man who had been closest to the jumper shook his head. His eyes were wide and the colour had drained from his face.

Ithenfield allowed the slightest of smirks. "Hmm, well, look on the bright side: his tombstone will have a very amusing epithet."

And at that, he went back to his work, pointedly ignoring the horrified looks that the mercs were giving him.


End file.
